"And well he repaid their kindness," says Jim, indignation at last giving him words.
She puts out her hand, as if to stop him.
"Wait, wait!" she says, almost authoritatively; "do not abuse him. He seemed very grateful to them, and they all—we all—became quite fond of him. When he grew stronger, he turned out to be very lively and light-hearted—almost as light-hearted as we."
She pauses, pulled up by a deep sigh, at the reminiscence of that young gaiety, then hurries on, as if afraid of his again breaking in upon her narrative with some scathing ejaculation.
"Before three weeks were over—you know how cheerful and easy-going we were—he was quite one of us—quite as—as intimate as you were."
Jim stirs uneasily, galled by the comparison.
"He was a long time painting my picture—could not satisfy himself with the likeness—and began it over again several times. At first there was always someone in the room with us when I sat to him, but by-and-by, as he became more and more one of us—as his presence among us grew to be a matter of course—we were allowed often to be tête-à-tête."
She stops to let pass two Frenchmen and a Frenchwoman of the petit bourgeois class who are sauntering homewards, frisked about by two little cheerful curs, and with armfuls of hawthorn—yes; real English hawthorn—in their embrace. They look inquisitively, but not rudely, at the pale couple, and now they are out of sight.
"It was a very fine autumn, as you may remember, and we used to go out sketching together. He was supposed to give us sketching lessons—the children and me. The governess was by way of always being there, but she was a sentimental creature, generally straying away by herself with a poetry-book, and we were virtually alone."
Jim sees how increasingly, how horribly difficult of relation is the tale as it nears its catastrophe; but he is quite incapable of helping her.